Fantasia 2013 - Friday, August 2nd

Here are some brief impressions of the three films I saw on Friday, August 2^nd:

Curse of Chucky

Watching this flavorless melting pot of dated horror film devices and random Chucky lore, I felt a distinct nostalgia for the blessed 1980s. After all, it was only then that people could make decent killer dolls films. Now, the sub-genre has all dried up, as if the tribulations of pint-sized serial killers were somehow growing passé. Judging from the lack of innovation in this unwelcome sequel, there’s certainly a good reason for that, and even returning director/screenwriter Don Mancini seems to be fully aware of this distressing fact. By displacing the story further away from its urban roots, and into the realm of more “respectable” genre fare, he seems to tell us that there is no more water left in the mill, but what can be borrowed from others. Abandoning the nearly Cronenbergian approach prevalent in the previous two entries of the series, Mancini plays it safe here, indulging in no stylistic or narrative excess, electing instead to keep things predictable and boring in a transparent bid to hang on to the whims of nostalgic fans. A definite step backwards for the series, which allows it to step back into canon.

Part family drama, part haunted house caper, the introductory chapter of this surprisingly conventional outing sets up paraplegic cutie Nica (Fiona Dourif) as the unlikely protagonist and sacrificial victim of our most celebrated psychotic doll. Caring for her aging mother in a remote Victorian homestead, the young woman has learned to overcome her handicap and become a useful housekeeper. That is until a mysterious package lends on her doorstep, containing a fuck-ugly red-haired talking doll. Rather unconcerned by the origin of said doll, Nica takes it in and allows it to run rampant in the house, where it creates a web of intrigue and mistrust. When mom gruesomely commits suicide, the rest of the family pops into Nica’s life, questioning her capacity to take care of herself and threatening to sell the house and move her to a nursing home. These threats, however, will soon sound hollow in the face of impending doom, with the killer doll trying to complete a murderous task undertook two decades ago.

Long shadows as a shortcut to nobility...

As mentioned in my opening paragraph, the decision to set the story in an old Victorian homestead, far away from the seedy trailers and dilapidated apartments of the two previous films, is a transparent tactic by writer/director Mancini to inject a false sense of nobility into the series. It is as if the nobler tradition of haunted house horror could magically infer gravity to some lowbrow slasher fare made famous for its unabashed use of profanity. “Don’t fuck with the Chuck” was the tagline for the third film. Twenty years later, we can now enjoy a playful, variation on the theme with “Be afraid. Be effing afraid”. This reference to Geena Davis’ line from The Fly (1986) actually sounds like an MPAA-sanctioned publicity stunt made to promote Chucky to a new generation of constipated do-gooders, not unlike our crippled protagonist, whose lifeless bottom half seems to instantly infer virginity. Personally, I think the new decor is quite unwelcome, especially if one looks back at the carefree 80s, when people still gave a damn, and Chucky movies were assorted with awesome action set-pieces. Here, the in camera approach greatly narrows the potential for spectacle, and a few snippets of gore are the only things left to quench our desire for excitement. Unfortunately, one ripped-out jaw is not going to do it for me, nor is the artificially mounting tension, epitomized in my heart by the tedious wait for Chucky to utter his first nasty quip. Fact of the matter is, we know full well where this thing is going and we know what path it will take to get there. Hell, even when Mancini has a chance to do good, and cash-in on some carefully crafted anticipation, he ends up choking by taking the most boring, beaten path on to the next scene. This can best be exemplified by the sequence in which the whole family gathers for a meal around the dinner table, unaware that one of their plates has been spiked with poison. Pondering on who will croak, we eagerly await the spectacle of a messy death until one of the guests suddenly ups and leaves on the pretext that he doesn’t feel well. That’s it. No puke on the dinner table and no satisfied expectations. Likewise, the nine-year wait for a sequel to Seed of Chucky could’ve never prepared us for this bland new film. At least, there was some experimentation in the two previous chapters, a dab into the grotesque and the organic, allowing for new latex creations and some new directions for the main storyline. Here, everything is too neat, tidy and conventional, as if Mancini was attempting to step back into the womb, or into a sealed capsule that would somehow withstand the passage of time.

Despite my own recriminations against the film, there has been quite a buzz from hardcore fans and they seem to agree that Curse is a worthy entry in the series. And while I feel that it rather sounds like a swan song (it is the only title to be released straight to video), I understand their feelings in that the murder mystery format used here marks a return to form for the franchise. It must certainly be reassuring to exit the darkness cultivated in the previous two entries and bask at the pretty façade of this polished effort just as it must be reassuring to welcome back the tried and tested slasher mechanics from earlier films. Most importantly, in regards to fan service, is the fact that the present screenplay widens the canon by including flash-backs and supplementary exposition on voodoo aficionado Charles Lee Ray (portrayed by Brad Dourif in fully human form). It also manages to tie several loose ends left inbetween chapters of the dislocated series, pegging not only one, but two satellite characters (Chucky’s former girlfriend Tiffany and choice victim Andy Barclay) on a definitive timeline. The very apparition of these two characters, and especially that of estranged hero Barclay, probably acts as balm on the wounds inherited from the series’ turn into a darkly humorous form of self-parody, which has seen anti-hero Chucky become an unlikely protagonist. Now, everything is back in its original place, with virginal Nica reclaiming the spotlight from the stubby-fingered, foul-mouthed little killer. The fact that her character is portrayed by Dourif’s daughter Fiona further seems to indicate a return to bases for the series, with trashy Tiffany yielding to the candid charms of the wheelchair-bound young woman.

In the end, your appreciation of the film will probably depend on your stance with regards to the direction taken by the series in recent years. While purists will probably jump for joy at its return to the narrow canon established in the late 1980s, fans of the grotesque excesses showcased in the two most recent titles will feel abandoned and disillusioned. As for laymen, they will see a disappointing film that fails to deliver on some nice tension-building, choosing instead to distill the horrific aspect of the narrative with dated slasher tactics. Finally, casual horror fans will see a fairly average, gutless homage to several horror traditions characterized by decent production values, but far too little innovation to stand out from the crowd.

**   This rather forgettable entry in the series rejoins the canon by drawing from dated horror traditions, sacrificing both the epic set pieces from parts 1-3 and the dark humor from part 4-5 in order to reclaim some lost fans. 

Raze

Despite some pretensions as a serious critique of corporate excess, Raze is hardly a narrative film, and whatever dramatic issues contained in the premise are entirely subservient to the primitive spectacle of brutality. One could say that the film features “fights”, but these are not akin to the highly choreographed ballets of Yuen Woo Ping; these are brutal expressions of instinct, and they are appropriately punctuated by a barren, rhythmic soundtrack. In turn, the absence of a bothersome or overly intricate dramatic canvas and the unabashed showcase of female-on-female assault make for a unique experience of “pure” genre cinema. And while the film could rightfully be tagged as exploitative, no one will dare call it hypocritical, for it never uses manipulation to justify the violence onscreen. Maybe genre fans will be the only ones to grasp the worth of such artistic integrity, but even that’s OK since the film is squarely aimed at them. All in all, Raze is a UFO on the movie scene, if only for its unadulterated dedication to the raw depiction of violence as a spectacle. 

Abducted and imprisoned by a shady secret society obsessed with morbid entertainment, a group of women are forced to fight each other lest one of their family members is executed by their captors. Confined to damp cells in a stuffy stone cellar, being psychologically and physically abused by unidentified masterminds, these women develop fragile and desperate friendships, hoping that more than one of them will come out of the ordeal alive. Obviously, this turns out to be wishful thinking, as their tormentors are carefully overlooking and videotaping their every move. And in the face of death, protagonist Sabrina is different from her peers only in her unflinching desire to survive, and her subsequent brutality in the ring. But despite the eager fists she swings at her opponents, she also proves to be a very humane cellmate, trying to console the other women in her clique and to protect them from psycho-bitch Phoebe, who enjoys killing with her bare hands, totally unconcerned by the threats against her mother’s life. In the end, Sabrina and Phoebe are pitted against each other in a bloody grudge match, but this does not prove to be the climactic event of the film. Instead, the winner of their bout takes the violence upstairs, turning the tables on her aristocratic captors and earning her freedom through their demise. Whether this brand of happy ending truly befits the tone of the film is another issue entirely... 

Red filters as narrative devices: Raze 

There is a certain purity to Raze that is unmatched by all other women-in-prison or martial arts film. Not only are the numerous fight scenes well choreographed and energetically carried out by a talented cast of XX fighters, but they are also shown from a gritty, non-heroic angle. These fights are dirty, and they challenge any form of “honor” often associated with such confrontations. This is made clear very early, as protagonist Sabrina fakes abdication against her first opponent, only to whack her after she has let her guard down. This girl does not fight for the greater good, for the fate of humanity, or any such bullshit reason. She merely fights for survival, and that makes her profoundly human. This also sheds the need for further characterization. In fact, all the characters’ backgrounds prove not so important in fleshing them out as their current imprisonment, which naturally exacerbates their emotional fragility and murderous impulses. In short, emotional resolve is herein equated with survival instinct, and it sheds the need for any sort of lengthy exposition. Where characterization DOES make a difference is in the later fights, in which friends are pitted against friends. Unfortunately, these confrontations fail to attain real dramatic highs, feeling more like obligatory narrative devices than earnest attempts at catharsis. Actually, the film distills the whole of the excitement it provides in the sheer brutality of the fights, and not in their dramatic implications. And while this could be considered a screenwriting flaw in many circles, it's merely a way for the film to remain as straightforward and uncompromising as possible.

Raze’s purity also proceeds from the simplicity of its narrative construction, and its use of expressionistic devices to better draw the viewer into the ring. The whole project is almost experimental in that regard. Each fight scene is preceded by a black card on which the names of the two combatants appear. This deconstructive tactic subverts the tradition of invisibility associated with conventional narrative cinema, exposing the real nature of the film as a pure showcase of violence. Then, there is the rhythmic soundtrack, punctuated not by music per se, but by the aggressive beating of drums, which gives the film a rough, tribal feel that is perfectly in sync with the characters’ mindset as they are reverting to a form of primal barbarity. Then, there is lighting, whose function here is not to make the fights more intelligible or to better delineate the combatants, but to cultivate the oppressive quality of imprisonment. And while it might seem strange to shoot intricate fight scenes in near-total darkness, it is an efficient way for the authors not to glamorize these fights, but to make them an integrant part of the surrounding darkness. Hence, the black and red hues bathe the characters in a ominous glow, complicating the showcase of their martial proficiency, but contributing a far more important sense of despair to the show. All of these key features allow us to enjoy the film on a purely visceral level, hence exalting the unapologetic mindlessness inherent to genre cinema. Such integrity is highly welcome too, for it challenges the bourgeois notion of genre as a prepackaged narrative format. Here, narrative conventions are eschewed like the lining of fat on meat slices, and only the raw power of instinct remains, allowing us to ponder not only on the nature of genre cinema, but on our own violent instincts as well.

**1/2   Brutal and unapologetic, this “pure” genre film refuses to let melodrama or even plausibility ruin its gutsy action scenes.

Return to Nuke ‘em High - Volume 1

From the looks of this unbearable gore comedy, Troma-type bad taste hasn’t aged so well, nor has it managed to mature along with its dedicated audience of 20+ years. So before you try and return to the titular Tromaville high school, maybe you should remember how it was back in the day. Remember the lame jokes, hysterical acting, inane screenplay and redundant tribulations. Remember it all, and know that things haven’t changed one bit since then. The nuclear power plant is now an organic food concern, but the same barrels of shining fluorescent goo lie within. New actors have replaced the old ones, but they are equally annoying in their incessant yelling. Scour your memory and you will appreciate just how sterile Kaufman’s studio has become in its stubborn refusal to evolve. Then, maybe you will find it in your heart to make yourself a favor and steer clear of this stinking mess.

Tromaville High used to stand right next to the local nuclear power plant, but some leakage spoiled the water supplies, causing a massive outbreak of monstrosity and mischief. Now, the plant has been replaced by a food concern known as Tromorganics Foodstuffs, which supplies the school cafeteria with highly dubious morsels. Evidently, the head of the factory is a soulless crook (played by Lloyd Kaufman himself) and he’s got the high school principal on his side. Thanks to his help, he manages to unload a massive quantity of noxious glowing tacos on the students, making the whole glee club turn into a roving band of mutant gangbangers. Mischief ensues as the eco-friendly lesbian protagonist reluctantly teams up with a rich new girl in order to save the day. There’s a sex scene between the two near the end, and it’s the definitive highlight of the film. The aggressive overbid of tomfoolery making up the remainder of the runtime never manages to elicit more than embarrassed laughter.

Watching Return is like stepping in a nightmarish time warp

Lloyd Kaufman may be just as young at heart as he ever was, but it is simply because he hasn’t matured at all through the years, becoming so complacent that he now recycles his old jokes endlessly so as to desperately keep his dubious brand alive. Frankly, I think he should stick to the funding of cleverer independent cinema than his own. With the current revival of 1980s style genre cinema (exemplified by Astron-6’s Troma-produced Father’s Day), things could be far rosier (and less embarrassing) for Lloyd if he stepped back behind the director's chair. Here, he merely relies on the nostalgic value of dusty artifacts, digging out a car explosion from a 1980s film (I'm pretty sure it was The Toxic Avenger) to complement a series of dated, overdone jokes featuring crudely caricatured characters, parading Toxies, and pet ducks (later shoved in the mouth of their owners). While it can pass off as a meta-joke to the most open-minded of viewers, an automotive explosion recycled from another film remains an easy substitute for blowing up a new car. And that wouldn’t even be so bad if everything else didn’t seem borrowed from the 1980s as well. Replacing Mayor Belgoody and a slew of other lard-laden crooks, the school principal is a typical Troma archetype, and so are the mutated villains, whose punk attire seem to have emerged from a nightmarish time warp. Hell, there’s even Cigar Face popping in to quip his famous one-liner from The Toxic Avenger! It sure is all a blast from the past, but that is precisely why we have blast doors... 

However mediocre and redundant the rest of the film is, the final insult comes at the end, when Kaufman cheats its audience in the most abominable way by cutting the story short and providing a mere cliffhanger as the conclusion to this 85-minute chore. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. I know the title bears the mention “Volume 1”, but this hardly justifies an incomplete story. Not only is this unfair to the viewers, who have spent a full 9$ to see a story with a beginning, a middle and an end, but it fills them with anguish at the thought of having to sit through another volume of this stuff just for some closure*. Last time I checked, narrative cinema was all about telling a complete story within the confines of a given time span. Cinema is NOT TV. It’s not made to imprison the audience and manipulate them into watching more. Furthermore, this tactic seems like a last ditch effort to squeeze a really old and dry lemon for some juice. It was not enough for the Class of Nuke ‘em High to generate two inferior sequels and a recent DVD re-release. Now, we have to endure a “remake/quasi-sequel” broken down in several parts!?! Coming from an indie production outfit such as Troma, this is a surprising ploy to shamelessly cash in on the previous glory of the brand, a practice unfit for the greedy corporate heads at Disney, but even more so for a bona fide genre icon such as Lloyd Kaufman. Shame on you, Lloyd… 

* I must admit that I enjoyed the final reference to Carrie, and think that it will make a fine start for the next part, but no flash of genius could've saved the film at this point. 

1/2*   Filled to the brim with annoying overacting and crude humor recycled from earlier Troma films, this latest effort by the venerable Lloyd Kaufman is a pathetic exercise in regressive nostalgia. I recommend you slap an old copy of The Toxic Avenger in the VCR instead….